Love is a Poison
by tonsil-stone
Summary: It would have turned out differently. Perhaps he would have died; perhaps not. He hadn't planned on ever returning to her, but she was not a little dove anymore. She was a wolf, and wolves took what they wanted.
1. Sansa

"_There's only one thing that would make me happy."_

Sansa remembers asking him what that thing was, and if he had been any other man in Westeros perhaps he would have gotten the hint and spirited her away to some dark corner to make love to her and swear his undying loyalty. But this was Sandor so all she received was him yapping at her like some old arthritic hound.

Sansa couldn't help but indulge the fantasies she had of him, after all, he'd been the closest thing to a savior she had which is quite pathetic and telling of the tragedy of her life because he spent most of their time together mocking and sneering at her. Still, he'd been the only one who had helped her purely of his own will with no demands of her in return. For that reason his soiled Kingsguard cloak and handkerchief dotted with her blood were among her most cherished possessions; for that reason, Sansa had wanted to be the thing that would make him happy.

She recalled when she was that "thing". When it appeared as if the world was alight with emerald fire and he could no longer stomach the flames, it was her room he had sought. It was her safety he had thought of, it was her that was the object of his lust drenched eyes, and it was her that he offered his protection to. They had called him a turncloak after, but the truth was he turned his back on the Lannisters the moment he stopped her from shoving Joffrey off the battlements without a word to anyone.

Years have gone by, and she wasn't his little bird anymore. Maybe he had only loved her innocence. Maybe he never loved her at all. Maybe he did love her but the temptation of his brother was too much. Maybe the hatred had eaten away at everything else inside of him. Who is to say? She can speculate all she wants, Sandor has always been an impossible man and had never been especially chatty. He wasn't like Tyrion, a couple of goblets of Dornish red and suddenly you were privy to his every trial and tribulation.

She'd been tricked when he didn't leave with Jon and the other Northmen the day they all rode South. A small spark of hope had kindled in her that he would stay after all, but it was quickly stamped out when she had spotted him headed towards the stables with a bedroll in hand a few days later.

It was early in the morning and Sansa was one of the few people awake. Winterfell was in need of extensive repairs and morale was low. The war against the dead had taken many and Jon's queen had immediately launched them into another war that would take many more. Therefore, the Lady of Winterfell's nights were short and her days were longer. She made her way over to him and the stable boy he was barking at. "Give him one of our finest," she called out from behind him.

Sandor turned around as the stable boy bowed to her and scurried inside the stables, "I don't need one of your gussied up horses."

"Please don't be so disagreeable, you've done so much for Arya and I this is the least I can do."

"You don't owe me anything," he spat.

Sansa stepped closer to him, "I owe you much more than a horse and I've offered more, but you seem intent on refusing my attempts of gratitude."

Sandor shot her a look of confusion, "The fuck are you going on about?"

Sansa quirked a brow, "The feast?" she said trying to jog his memory.

"What about the bloody feast?"

Sansa gave a small huff of exasperation, "I touched your hand and gave you a look."

"A look?"

"Yes, a come hither look."

"What the fuck is a come hither look?"

"It's a look that says come hither," Sansa explained in a forceful tone.

"Hither where?"

"I thought you were supposed to be the smarter of the two of us."

Sandor gave her a grating chuckle and a warm look, "Guess things have changed."

Sansa returned his look with one of longing as the sound of a horse crunching through snow grew closer to them, "I suppose so."

She examined the horse the boy had picked out, it was tall and black with feathering around the hooves. Sandor ran a hand along the side of the horse, "And a fine beast it is."

The stable boy then made the mistake of taking it upon himself to load Sandor's packs onto the horse for him. If it were any other man in Westeros this would be routine and welcomed but again, this was Sandor. He grabbed the pack and snarled at the boy, "I'll do it myself!"

Sansa gave the boy a piteous look, "I believe that's fresh bread I smell coming from the kitchens, you should get something to eat. _Ser_ Sandor seems more than capable of packing his own horse."

The stable boy gave her an appreciative look before practically running away. "Not a ser," Sandor grumbled familiarly.

"If you're going to frighten my servants at the crack of dawn I'll call you _ser_."

Sandor began to arrange the bundles on his horse, picking them up as if they were nothing, "I came North with Robert. I went South with Robert. I came North with that bitch sister of yours and those fucking fire worshippers. I went to the fuck all North with your brother. Sailed South with your brother. Sailed back North with your brother. This is the last time I'm making this fucking trip, and I'm not going to let some green boy who's barely off his mother's tit fuck it up."

"You're off to kill your brother I take it."

"You know me well," Sandor rasped.

"I could say the same of you, curious how that happened."

Sandor gave her a sorrowful look, "Pain is a lot for two people to have in common little bird."

Sandor cupped the side of her head with one of his large hands and Sansa fought back tears, "And you're certain you'll die?"

"Gregor's got two feet on me and head to toe steel armor."

"So you're going to get yourself killed killing someone who is already dead?" Sansa asked in a not so kind tone.

Sandor gripped the side of her neck and gave her an angry gaze, "Don't judge me, you of all people should know why this is so important. Why I have to be the one to do it."

"Then perhaps you should listen to my reason of all people," Sansa countered.

"My purpose in this life was set the moment Gregor shoved my face into the fire, nothing else matters," Sandor said releasing her from his hold.

"Whatever you say so you can march to your death without any thought of the life you're throwing away."

They held each other's gaze until Sandor eventually looked away. For all his griping in King's Landing, he didn't like her looking at him after all. Figuring that if she was going to attempt to administer any level of affection to this man before he left it would be best to catch him off guard, Sansa stood on her toes and wrapped her arms around his neck. He stiffened and then slowly unwound himself until she felt an arm around her neck, another at her back, and the uneven ridges of his face pressing against her smooth skin.

Sansa felt her whole body go warm and hum with happiness. She wished her life could end at this moment, and that she wouldn't have to deal with Daenerys and her dragons, or Cersei, just Sandor holding her. "_A child's wish,"_ she thought as she pulled away from him slightly.

She took his face in her hands, looking anywhere but his eyes, and kissed him on the ruined side of his face. "If you survive, or realize halfway there how idiotic this whole idea is, you'll always have a home here."

Sandor was avoiding her eyes as well. He took a piece of her hair, rubbing it between his thumb and index finger, "I always did like your hair."

His eyes finally met hers, "Reminds me of fire."


	2. Arya

Arya softly puttered around her room, gathering the few things she would take with her to King's Landing. She'd arranged the night before for her horse to be packed and waiting for her once the sun rose. She gave one last look around her room as she unbarred the door. It was the very same one she'd had when she was a little girl, Sansa had it made up for her as soon as Arya had arrived in Winterfell. Her older sister had taken the Lord's chambers at Jon's insistence so her old room sat empty, but she'd set Arya, Jon, and Bran in the rooms they kept when they were children. Theon had been placed in his old room when he arrived as well. It was almost truly home again, but Robb's, Theon's, Rickon's, and Sansa's rooms sat empty like tombs. Reminding them that they would never all be together as they had been.

The last time Arya had left Winterfell it was with Nymeria, her father, and a whole northern host at her side. Even that wasn't enough to keep her out of trouble. She recalled Micah and Lady's death grimly as she opened her door and made her way out of the castle. She was different now, older, and only one thing mattered.

She passed the forge and gave it a quick glance. Gendry. She loved him, and he loved her. She'd wanted nothing more than to have his sleeping form next to her in bed during the night, but it wouldn't have been right for her to ask that of him and then leave like she was doing. It's better this way, better for him and her to part now. Let him have some distance from the girl who killed death before succumbing to her own. Let her rejection of marriage be his last memory of her, it'll hurt less that way.

Arya approached the stables and was surprised to see Sansa standing there. She purposefully began loudly stomping her feet into the snow because she knows Sansa startles easily these days. At the sound of the ice crunching beneath her feet, her sister quickly turns around to face her, "Come to say your goodbyes then?"

Sansa's lip turned downward into a small frown, "Goodbye? Are you going somewhere?"

"King's Landing. I have unfinished business there."

Sansa looked back at the gates, "Don't we all. Why didn't you go with the rest of our men?"  
Arya didn't see a stable hand anywhere so she went to get her horse with Sansa walking slowly behind her, "Too crowded."

Sansa laughed halfheartedly, "I'm afraid you're headed to the wrong place if you want solitude."

"It'll only be for a short while. Not like I'm planning on living there, I don't know how Jon will stand it. Can you imagine him in King's Landing?"

The sisters smiled at each other as Arya led her horse to the gates. Sansa took her hand and smoothed down a stray hair on Arya's head, "I'm going to miss you."

Arya looked into her older sister's blue eyes and then pulled her into a tight hug. From this angle, all she could see was Sansa's dark cloak and red hair, and if she tried hard enough she could almost make believe it was her mother that was holding her. They released each other and Arya leaped onto her horse, urging it forward. She halted after a few steps and looked back at Sansa, "I'm sorry about Lady. I never told you that."

"I'm sorry about your friend."

Arya frowned and squinted her eyes, "It was my fault."

Sansa shook her head, "It wasn't. It wasn't mine either. It was Joffrey's for being a weak, cruel, liar and Cersei and Robert's fault for enabling it. We didn't really consider each other before."

"When do the sun and the moon consider each other?" Arya asked, echoing what her father had told her a lifetime ago.

Sansa's eyes cascaded from side to side before looking up at her again, "During an eclipse, I would imagine."

Arya nodded before spurring her horse onwards once again. As she crossed the threshold of the gates she heard Sansa's voice call out to her, "I love you horseface!"

Arya smiled as a small tear escaped one of her eyes and whispered to herself, "I love you too."

Arya traveled for the better part of half a day before she saw him, and he was hard to miss as always. He had always been too tall by his lonesome but it was even worse when he was on horseback. His hair was a dark soiled mess of grease and blood in her memories of him but freshly washed it almost reached a sandy blonde in sharp contrast to his dark beard. It was almost like his body couldn't decide if he was a westerlander or a northerner. Arya knew he wasn't of the north but he did a damn good job acting like one of them. Rude, brutish, and honest, like the blood of first men ran through his veins the same as her.

She sped up to gain on him before slowing her horse down to a walk as she approached him. He scoffed at her before throwing the dried meat he was eating on the ground, "For fuck's sake."

"Good to see you too Hound."

They greeted each other in their way with murder as their mutual equilibrium before he grumpily accepted her as a traveling companion. "That's a nice horse."

"Your sister's doing."

"Did she see you off? I wondered why she was at the gates."

He nodded and they continued on in comfortable silence, much like it had been when they trekked through half of Westeros together. This time was bound to be better though, for one she had her own horse, they weren't starving, he wasn't burning up with infection, and she didn't have to deal with his armor digging into her side. He wasn't wearing armor at all this time, but she guessed there was no need. What's the use of armor going into a fight you're not planning on surviving? As they rode on through the day, Arya found herself pleased they were traveling together. There was no question that Cersei and the Mountain would be together in King's Landing so it made sense, and if she had to die fighting beside anyone she was glad it was going to be him.

As the daylight waned Castle Cerwyn came into view and Arya pulled a hood over her head. The Hound gave her a strange look, "We'll get better rooms if you keep that down. Better wine too."

"I don't want the attention, do you?"

He didn't respond and they continued on, reaching the castle as dusk claimed the sky. The Hound scowled, "The days are still short, looks like winter is still here even if you killed that dead cunt."

"Of course winter is still here. It's coming for the lions in King's Landing."

The Hound rolled his eyes at her as they trickled through the castle's gates with other soldiers who were straggling behind. They were given a tiny room with a few cots and furs shoved against a wall. Arya made a fire while the Hound went to the kitchens for some food. When he returned he slumped against the cot furthest from the fire and motioned toward the tray he'd brought in. Arya greedily grabbed a large portion of stew, letting the hot wooden bowl warm her hands as she carefully slurped from it. The Hound took a deep swig of a wineskin, "Shit bed, but it's the best we'll have for a while. It'll be cold and rough until we reach the Riverlands."

Arya nodded in agreement watching keenly as he slyly rubbed the leg Brienne had injured. "You going lame Hound?" she poked at him.

"Fuck off."

"How did you survive anyway, was there actually a maester hiding behind one of those rocks?"

"Septon."

Arya couldn't help but laugh, "For someone who doesn't believe in the gods, they sure seem to like you. First the Lord of Light and now the Seven."

"And you wolf bitch? Did Brienne of Fucking Tarth get you home? No, I'd wager she didn't. You've killed too many people for that to be true, I can see it in your eyes."

"Braavos," was all Arya said.

"Got your pretty sister home, guess the tall bitch fulfilled her godsdamn oath."

"Always pretty."

The Hound shot her a look, "What?"

"Never Sansa, never Lady Stark, never just my sister. It's always your pretty sister."

"I'm a mean fucker, not a blind one. Any man would be a liar if he said she wasn't."

"You spent most of your life guarding Cersei. She's beautiful and you never say as such."

The Hound snorted, "Cersei's as beautiful as gilded dog shit, the little bird's pretty all the way through."

"What did you just say?"

"Do my words offend you my lady?" he smarted.

"You called Sansa a little bird."

"Aye, cause she used to chirp like one of those birds from the Summer Isles. Singing any song her masters demanded."  
"You love her," Arya said it flatly as a statement.

The Hound looked at her with stormy eyes and a confused countenance. Arya didn't wait for a reply before continuing, "You used to talk in your sleep. Sometimes I could tell you were having a nightmare but most of the time you would just ramble. It was always little bird this little bird that. Drove me mad."

He gave her a hesitant nod, "It's probably how you say it is. Gods know most of my regrets involve your sister. Wish I could've protected her better, or at least been less of a cunt."

"Does she know?"

He shrugged, "Who knows? But I do know she doesn't need a dog like me nipping at her ankles after all she's been through. I didn't break her in like the Bolton bastard, but I came pretty close at Blackwater."

Arya fiddled with the hilt of her dagger, "What stopped you?"

"I was too drunk, your sister held me and started singing the bloody Mother's Hymn, and I'm not my brother."

Arya smiled softly, "That sounds like Sansa."

The Hound let out a gravely hum, "Balls of iron that one, you know she tried to kill Joffrey the day he executed your father?"

"No, I didn't."

"Little blonde cunt made her look at his head and promised he'd bring her your brother's," he barked out a raspy laugh, "Then she goes on to say maybe your brother will bring her his."

Arya watched dumbstruck as he took a deep drink and continued, "So he has Trant strike her and suddenly she's lunging to push him off the battlements. Lucky for Joffrey I caught her, little twat never knew how close he came to death that day."

"Why did you stop her?"

He tore into a piece of bread and answered with a half-full mouth, "Because she was going to kill him like you're going to kill Cersei, and how I'm going to kill my brother. Seemed like a waste for something so beautiful to die."

Arya nearly blushed, the Hound was brutally honest as ever and his admission made her feel like she was intruding on something private. She felt like she knew her sister better, but tenderness on the Hound made her uncomfortable. She cleared her throat, "I killed Meryn Trant in Braavos."

He gave her a look like he was waiting for her to go on. "Gouged his eyes out and slit his throat."

"Good, he deserved a hard death. Might want to tell your sister that if you ever see her again, I'd imagine she has more than a few scars on her back from the broadside of his sword."

Arya looked into the fire, "It's getting late."

They both made their way to their respective beds and wrapped the furs around themselves. Arya heard his voice grate through the darkness, "Are you going to try to kill me in my sleep like the last time we traveled together?"

"Only if you snore."

It took them four days to reach Moat Cailin and then another six to get through the Neck and into the Riverlands. Arya put her hood up as they approached the Twins. "Seems quiet," the Hound had muttered when they had paid the crossing fee without incident, "Not like last time."

"The Freys are gone, I killed them all when I came home."

The Hound had looked at her with something Arya could only describe as pride.

Ten days later found them near the Trident. They were making their way towards the entrance to Harroway when they spotted soldiers. "Knights of the Vale," Arya commented as she observed the Arryn sigil on their helms, "We must be making better time than we wanted if we're already running into them."

Looking back, Arya would chastise herself for not knowing something was amiss right then. Soldiers surrounding a town is never good news. As the two of them advanced the group of knights turned and rode towards them with their swords drawn. She reached for Needle but the Hound gripped her arm harshly, "There's too many."

Arya's gut twisted and her heart began to beat wildly as they were encircled. Taking a deep breath she tries to channel the steely tone Sansa uses when she orders the Lords of the North about. "What is the meaning of this? I am Arya of House Stark. You dare pull your weapons on me? Let us pass."

Arya shrugged smally as the Hound looked at her like he was stifling a laugh. One of the knights moved his horse to the side creating an opening in their blockade, "Of course Lady Stark, but he cannot," he said motioning with his head to the Hound, "We're here to arrest him."

"On whose orders?" Arya asked.

"Lord Royce's, my Lady."

Arya looked back at the Hound who was gripping the reins of his horse so hard his whole fist was white. His jaw was set and he shook with rage. Arya looked at him with wide sympathetic eyes pleading with him for permission. She knew what it felt like to be so close to something you ache for, only to have it snatched away from you at the last second. She'd felt it when Gendry was sold to the Red Woman, at the Red Wedding, and the Bloody Gate. She didn't want to abandon him, they were meant to do this together. "I'll write to Sansa, she'll make them let you go," she said to him in a hoarse whisper before turning her eyes to the path through the knights.

"Girl," he growled and forcefully grabbed the back of her neck.

She heard the others tense and ready their weapons, but the Hound paid them no mind. "Don't do it."

Arya furrowed her brow, "What?"

"You heard me, it's not worth it. Cersei will die regardless, we both know that."

She felt she could laugh, "What are you talking about?"

He squeezed her neck roughly, "Look at me!"

She met his eyes with her own, "You want to become like me? Revenge is all I care about. You've got your whole life ahead of you if you don't fuck yourself over like I did."

"I thought we both knew where we were going and what was going to happen," she said coldly.

The Hound loosened his hold on her neck and softly cupped the back of her head and gave her an even softer look, "You think I was going to let you die?"

Realization washed over her and she felt numb. She watched as he dropped his weapons to the ground and allowed shackles to be clamped around his wrists. "Sandor?" her voice cracked more than she'd have liked it to.

His head snapped up at hearing his name.

"Thank you."

"If you hurt him I'll slit your throats," she said to the knights as she passed them.

The Trident had always been unlucky for them.


	3. Brienne

Brienne had never felt more broken in her life. She keeps trying to dig through the painful moments of her past, desperately clawing for something that hurt more than this so she could assure herself that she would survive it. She'd been so young when Galladon, her sisters, and her mother had died, they were nothing more than blurry wisps of memories. The closest person to her was and would always be her father but he was alive and well and most certainly not lacking in company.

This was the worst, she was sure of it. Worse than Renly, worse than all the times she'd been tormented and shunned. Because it hadn't been her height, her nose, or her lack of a certain organ that had left her heartbroken. Jaime desired her in spite of all of it, and even though he left she knew that he had love for her. He just loved Cersei more, vile and dishonorable she might be. It was a burn she'd never experienced before, for one cannot have someone chosen over them if they'd never been an option to anyone at all. And for the life of her, she didn't know how to deal with it.

She'd felt humiliated, sobbing in the courtyard in her shift like the maid she wasn't any longer. Luckily, except a few people, no one in Winterfell cared enough to comment on it. And Podrick and Sansa were both too polite to probe. The only thing she'd had to endure when she showed up in the Great Hall to break her fast with raw eyes and a splotchy face the morning after was the red-headed wildling loudly declaring to everyone that he was glad the southerners were going home because they were all cowards with limp cocks. It was ambiguous enough and a sentiment shared by most of the northerners so Brienne was able to get through it feeling relatively unscathed.

And of course, there was lady Sansa. Her lady had always been eagle-eyed and Brienne was far from discreet when it came to her emotions. Sansa had asked Brienne to share every meal with her since Jaime left and since Brienne hadn't been in the mood to spar, she'd offered her a cozy spot in her solar to keep her company while she saw to Winterfell's daily operations. They were doing so now, it was midday and both of them sat in well worn wooden chairs in front of the fire, an assortment of bread, cheeses, and meats placed between them.

Their conversation about the current events going on in the castle had lapsed and Brienne noticed that she wasn't the only one was was hugging her wine and pitifully pecking at the food. Lady Sansa looked tired and she hadn't been eating properly. It had also taken her half a day to review the accounts when she normally completed the task in the time between sunrise and when she would break her fast. A wave of guilt suddenly hit her and she felt foolish and irresponsible for wallowing in her self pity when it was clear her charge was in distress. "My lady, are you well?"

Lady Sansa looked at her and began skimming her index finger along the rim of her goblet, "Physically yes, forgive me for being distracted Brienne, it seems I have a few remembrances haunting me at the present."

Brienne felt a chill down her spine and for the thousandth time berated herself for not waiting for that godsforsaken candle. She leaned forward, "What haunts you, my lady?"

"Do you know the Mountain?"

Taken off guard because she'd braced herself to hear a tale of lady Sansa's torture at the hands of Ramsay Bolton, Brienne's mind conjured up an image of a giant of a man with grey skin and blood red eyes peeking through head-to-toe black armor. "I saw him at the Dragonpit but I've never met him in person. Never wanted to quite frankly, given his reputation."

Lady Sansa nodded slightly as she listened to her, "He's incredibly strong, he can wield a greatsword with just one hand. At my father's tourney he beheaded his mount with a single stroke, I imagine it took Ilyn Payne more effort to behead my father."

Brienne didn't doubt it if the man was half as large as she recollected. "Who won the tourney?" she asked, hoping to steer her lady away from such violent memories.

Sansa's lips quirked up, "Sandor Clegane. Loras Tyrell withdrew after he stopped the Mountain from killing him. I don't know if another man exists that could look so disgruntled at winning 40,000 gold dragons."

"Your brother probably, if he'd done something dishonorable to win."

Sansa gave her a small laugh and a wistful smile. "May I ask why you think of him?"

"Arya went South to kill Cersei, the Mountain will be standing in her way. Is it not natural that I worry?"

Lady Sansa took a sip of wine, "I've been through all seven hells and back to come home. All the people that I care for in one place, arguably the most dangerous place in the world until recently, and now they've gone to the very place I spent years trying to escape. The gods surely have their humor with us."

"Oh."

Brienne placed her hand on lady Sansa's knee reassuringly, "But the Hound went South as well, and I'm confident he'll protect lady Arya. He was willing to die by my hand to keep her safe."

Her lady's eyes widened and her lips parted softly, "The man. The man you said Arya was with was him wasn't it?"

Brienne nodded, "I didn't want to elaborate at the time because I didn't want to worry you."

"Arya never mentioned they traveled together, but she's been fairly tight-lipped about her _travels_."

"He put his life on the line for her once before, I'm sure he'll do it again," Brienne said assertedly.

A bitter smile engulfed lady Sansa's face, but before Brienne could question her it was gone. "Enough about me, how are you doing Brienne? I notice I'm not the only one who's lost her appetite these past few days."

Brienne straightened and steeled herself, she did owe her lady an explanation after all. "I have something I must confess."

Lady Sansa rolled a piece of cheese about the plate, "I know Brienne."

"You know?"

Lady Sansa smiled, "Under no other circumstances would I have let the man who pushed my brother from a tower window and who had a key role in the execution of my father stay in my home as a guest. If anyone could make a Lannister redeemable it would have been you."

Brienne's face flushed crimson in embarrassment, "My lady I-"

Sansa silenced her with a wave, "You've nothing to apologize for Brienne. And I know it hurts and this advice may seem hollow to you now, but do try not to take it personally. A kicked dog will seek to be kicked once more if that is all it's ever known."

Brienne swallowed and gave her lady a nod.

"Love is a poison."

"What?"

Lady Sansa leaned back until her head hit the back of the chair and gazed into the flames in the fireplace, "Love is a poison. A sweet poison. But it will kill you all the same."

"My lady?"

"Jaime Lannister has been poisoned by love his entire life. And love makes you do foolish things. Foolish things like giving up your claim to a great house, fathering three children you can never love as your own because supposedly they're the King's, and riding to your death because you're convinced that because you were born with someone, you should die with them too."

Brienne let out a sigh, "When you put it like that, perhaps he's trying to do the honorable thing."

"Then you did rub off on him after all."

Brienne smiled softly and heard Sansa whisper quietly, "I can't afford to be foolish. Do you know why?"

"The queen."

"Yes, the queen."

"Would she make such a horrible ruler?"

Lady Sansa chewed demurely on a piece of venison as she considered her. "She is a conqueror and conquerors don't like to rule. They do it for the glory of war. They like to feel the surge of power that you get from watching an army fall. They want to be idolized, to be worshipped. Her's is a house of conquerors, and what peace did they bring? Maegor the Cruel? The Mad King? Or what about when they burned half of Westeros fighting each other? But the North has never been conquered. A thousand swords are fused to one another to make up that hideous throne, not one from us."

Brienne ran a hand through her hair, "I understand."

"I have to keep my wits about me, she's not incredibly clever. The only thing she's ever had is a name and her dragons. Her name brings nothing but scorn here and she only has one dragon left. However, she's still dangerous and I must be careful, but all I can think of is the Mountain and a sea of flame."

Brienne gave Lady Sansa a concerned look, "Is there nothing to be done for this my lady?"

"Maybe, I'll have to think on it some. For now, I think some fresh air will do both of us good. Shall we see how the repairs are coming along?"

The next morning Brienne found lady Sansa in better spirits. She looked well rested, her cheeks were a rosy pink, and she was humming the Mother's Hymn. She was at her desk scribing on a piece of parchment and her head quickly snapped up when Brienne ventured closer. "Apologies my lady, I didn't mean to be nosy, you just have such lovely handwriting."  
Lady Sansa smiled at her as she rolled the paper, "Thank you, my mother taught me. A letter is a first impression she used to tell me."

Brienne felt a pang of sadness at the mention of the late lady Stark as she watched the daughter that resembled her so pour the grey wax onto the scroll and stamp the direwolf into it. Lady Sansa rose, "Walk with me to the rookery."

Brienne's feet clunked next to the swish of lady Sansa's skirts as they climbed the wooden steps. "I will be direct with you Brienne, this raven is to alert our army that Jaime Lannister has left Winterfell and is expected to try and reach King's Landing."

Brienne stopped. Lady Sansa followed suit. "If captured he will be at the mercy of Daenerys. Tyrion will definitely speak on his behalf but we saw how well that went here, and I have no authority in the South. If he dies I will understand if you're upset with me."

Brienne nodded slowly, "I would never ask you to do anything against the interest of your house, my lady. You've already been too kind."

Brienne followed behind lady Sansa this time, her red hair blowing in the northern wind like a flickering flame. Maester Wolkan, an older man with a round face and snow-white hair, jangled his chains as he approached them. Brienne watched lady Sansa hand him the scroll and she was saying something but Brienne's ears were ringing so hard she couldn't make it out.

She wondered what it would feel like when he died. Brienne had seen the devastation a dragon could cause during the Battle for Winterfell, she had no illusions that Cersei would prevail. She would never get to hear him call her wench again. He would never make snarky remarks to her while drilling his finger into whatever surface was closest. She would never get to look at him as he slept knowing he'd killed his king to save a city or look at his stump knowing he got his sword hand decapitated saving her from being raped. Each thought was a tiny death, and as she grieved, it felt as if a piece of her died as well.


	4. Sandor

Sandor sat atop his horse, wrists bound in iron, violently quiet as his emotions toiled about inside of him. They weren't new sensations, anger and hate were always things that came easily to him. When news of Gregor's death at the hands of that whoreson Martell reached him, Sandor was half dead and that fucking Septon was bitching his ear off about the gods' plan for him. He'd seen the dead in the flames, he did his damned part by going up north and following the Stark girls' idiot brother around and fighting the dead. He'd served. He'd served his entire life and he only wanted one thing. One fucking thing!

He'd been so close. More able-bodied and free to kill his brother than he'd been in his entire life. He had half a mind to jump off this horse and strangle as many of these bastards as he could. If he couldn't die killing his brother, might be that dying to get the chance to kill him would be the next best thing.

They'd been riding for hours, west it looked like. Probably to the Vale. He had been stewing in his own fury the entire time they had been traveling, and he had no plans to stop. Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted a horse slowly making its way next to his, with an older rider whose nose was just as fucked up as his was. "Hound."

Sandor gave him a sneer filled grimace, "Apple eater."

The man gave him an unbothered stare, "Better than being a craven."

Sandor snorted, "Better a craven than a dumb fool. Dying for Joffrey would have been more of an embarrassment than any deserter title you give me."

"Some of my men saw you at Winterfell. How bad was it?"

Sandor resented how easily recognizable his face was. _Might be the Dragon Queen remedies that._ He shook his head, "Ask your own men, _Captain_ _Lothor Brune."_

"Gracious as ever Hound."

"While I have you here _Captain_, might I ask why the fuck I've been arrested? I don't remember killing anyone that matters in the Vale."

"You've been accused of rape and razing towns along the Saltpans. Witnesses say it was a man with a helm in the shape of a dog and your's was recovered in the area."

Sandor ground his teeth, "Haven't been the Hound in a long time, you really think I'd be stupid enough to prance around in that thing with a King's bounty on my head and my brother in the Riverlands?"

"Doesn't matter what _I_ think, Lord Royce ordered your arrest, he's the one you'll have to convince."

The conversation fell way to silence until Brune thought to break it. "Is Lady Sansa well?"

"How the hell should I know? And why the fuck do _you_ care?"

"You came to the Eyrie with lady Arya a few years back, you were traveling with her just now. I gathered you might be close to the Stark sisters. I protected lady Stark when she was being sheltered in the Vale, I was merely inquiring about her wellbeing."

Sandor shot Brune a dirty look, "She's been fucked badly in more ways than one, least she's learned to be a killer. Should've known Littlefucker had her, he the reason I'm on this little detour?"

"Where have you been Hound? Lord Baelish was executed by the Stark sisters for murdering lady Arryn and conspiring against lord Stark."

Sandor felt a sense of pride swell within him, followed by a cold bitterness that spread throughout his veins. "I remember you as quieter," he jeered at Brune.

The journey to the Vale only took another day, and luckily it was still winter so everyone was congregated at the Gates of the Moon and there was no trek up to the Eyrie muleback. When they passed the Bloody Gate Sandor's mind went to the little wolf bitch, how she laughed when they told her that her aunt was dead. He didn't believe in the gods, especially not after what he'd seen up north, but he hoped with all his heart she'd heed his advice. He couldn't stand to think of her small body limp at the hands of his brother, or worse, alive.

Sandor heard the creak of a drawbridge being lowered as they approached. They rode through the gates and into the yard, where they were met by a man almost as massive as Sandor himself. The knights began to dismount and Sandor followed suit, hopping off his horse and growling at the men who attempted to help him. Brune walked over to the large man, "Lord Nestor," he greeted as he bowed.

Sandor glowered at Brune's suspiciously polite manner before rolling his eyes when Brune went towards the tall blue-eyed woman standing next to the lord, "Mya."

Mya placed her arm on Brune's arm before her eyes landed on Sandor, "Ser Brune, what have you brought us?"

A voice rang out across the yard before anyone could answer her, "Hound!"

And there he was. The sickly thing Joffrey had loved to torment in his early years had grown up into what they were obviously were trying to pass off as a man. His face was still a bit sallow, and a sword that he was sure the boy had never used hung at his hip. Sandor was surprised at the enthused recognition from him. The boy had been six when his batshit mother shipped him back up to the Eyrie from King's Landing, but Sandor supposed he had a memorable face. Lord Arryn sauntered over to them, "Come on then, unchain him."

Lord Nestor turned toward his liege lord, "Is that wise, my lord?"

Robin waved him off, "He's surrounded by my knights, what is he going to do?"

_Cocky little shit. I could snap your neck right now if I wanted to._

Sandor thrust his hands towards Brune, who unlocked the shackles that bound them. Lord Nestor faced him once again, "Have you been made aware of the charges against you?"

Sandor rubbed the spots on his wrists where the chains had chafed against the skin and gave the man a terse nod. "Is there anyone you wish to speak on your behalf at your trial?"

"The big Tarth bitch and the wolf bitch. The little one."

Lord Nestor frowned at his descriptions, Mya smiled in amusement, and Brune smiled at Mya's smile. Gods how he hated these people. Robin shook his head, "Don't worry too much about it Hound, this is all Old Bronze's doing, we can't even do anything till he gets back from the North."

Lord Nestor cleared his throat, "My lord, it would be best for you not to make any promises. After all, we do not yet know of his innocence."

Robin scoffed, "Who cares about his innocence? My mother used to say he was one of the greatest killers in Westeros, we should have him be a killer for us. Hey, could you teach me how to kill people?"

Fuck, how he reminded Sandor of Joffrey. Whiny served up with a side of a murderous glee. Least this one wanted to learn how to do it on his own. "What the hell, I've been itching for a sword these past two days."

Soon a sword was placed in his hands and he spent the better part of the day slapping Robin with its broadside and cursing the boy out. His skills were abysmal, no doubt a result of his mother coddling him. Her death might have been the best thing for him, he'd have to dig her corpse up and suckle her rotten flesh if he wanted to act a child again. Sandor had to give him his dues though, he could have called for his head many a time during their sparring but he didn't.

Brune and that Stone bitch had fucked off who knows where a while ago, but lord Nestor remained and watched them with amusement. He probably likes watching his pompous little lord getting knocked around. Eventually, the tall lord called for them to stop, as the daylight was beginning to fade. Both of them were breathing hard, Robin more so than him which was fucking laughable given Sandor had at least fifteen years on the boy.

Sandor relinquished his weapon to a nearby knight, his whole body trembling with exhaustion from the riding and fighting he'd done today. It had tempered his rage some, but Sandor was still seething inside. He ached for some warm blood to coat his hands or to watch the life drain from one of these fucker's eyes. Killing had always been the only thing that could soothe him. A couple of bottles of dornish red was a close second.

A curvy brunette had materialized beside Lord Nestor who then motioned to her, "This is my daughter, Myranda Royce. She'll show you where you'll be staying."

The girl nimbly grabbed his arm and began to lead him through the twist and turns of the castle. "You're so grimy my lord, I'm happy I thought to have a bath made up for you. Luckily we have to take care of father so we have a tub for a man so large like yourself," she practically purred as she pressed her breasts against his arm.

Sandor yanked his arm away from her, "I'm not a lord."

"Forgive me ser," she giggled as she took his hand.

He jerked his hand out of hers and growled, "I'm not a ser either."

She looked unphased at his rejections as she halted in front of a door, "Sandor it is then, so intimate already."  
She opened the door to reveal a small room simple in furnishings and with a large tub in the middle. Sandor stepped in and scowled at Myranda when she made no move to leave. She sighed in exasperation, "Fine. I'll go get you something to eat. Feel free to take as long as you need, I'll be back shortly," she said with a wink as she closed the door behind her.

Sandor wasted no time in stripping down and immersing himself in the hot water. He quickly lathered the loaf of soap left for him in his hands in an effort to get himself clean as soon as possible. He didn't know what he was liable to do if that Myranda came back and accosted him while he was bathing. He was certain lord Nestor wouldn't appreciate Sandor throwing his daughter out the window. Fuck, it had been a long time since he had a woman.

Despite what one might assume with his face being the mess that it is, Sandor had never had an issue finding a woman to bed. He didn't like whores, hated the idea of being somewhere where thousands of men had been before. The servant girls at Casterly Rock and the Red Keep were fond enough of him, he was one of the only guards who didn't grope or harass them and that had gone a long way. The Royce girl wouldn't be bad, her tits were large and she looked the type to know what she was doing but she was too short, her hair the wrong shade, and her eyes the wrong color.

Sandor picked at his nails in the water, now milky with soap, dirt, and sweat. Sansa Stark truly had him fucked through, he hadn't lusted over another woman since he met her. He hated her, hated how dangerous she was for him. He'd sworn to never become his brother, but he almost took her hundreds of times when they were in King's Landing. He had been on the precipice of not caring whether she screamed or cried or bled, it would only have mattered that she was his. The girl had been smart not to come with him, he would have probably left Westeros with her and never looked back.

Emerging from the bathwater, Sandor dried himself off and was relieved to find his things had been brought to the room and he wouldn't have to dress in his soiled clothes. It wasn't long after that Myranda Royce entered, without knocking. She looked disappointed at his lack of undress as she placed two trays of food onto the bed. Sandor scowled at her as she sat down on the opposite side of him, "So Sandor, I heard you've come from Winterfell?"

Sandor refused to answer and instead opted to jam a chicken leg into his mouth. Myranda ignored his unresponsiveness, "Did you see lady Stark? Her hair was brown when she was here, but they say it's red like her mother's. Is that true?"

Sandor gave a huff of irritation as he gnawed into bone, "Aye, it's true."

Myranda leaned closer into him, "Say, Sandor, you were in the Kingsguard weren't you?"

"Girl, I'm not going to fuck you, so don't you have anything better to do?"

She laughed, "You know I should have known Alayne, oh excuse me, _Sansa_, wasn't lord Baelish's daughter. She was far too dignified and sheltered to be bastard born. I tried for months to get her to talk about the men she'd had and all she ever surrendered was a story about a soldier she had loved who had kissed her and then disappeared."

Sandor shifted and resisted the urge to shove the chicken bone he was holding down her throat. "She said he wasn't a knight or a lord, tall, and had silver eyes," Myranda said putting a finger up for each point she made and wiggling her fingers in his face.

"She gave me his cloak you know?"

Sandor's eyes snapped up and memories of a half-naked Sansa sobbing in the throne room and desperately trying to cover herself clouded his mind. "Gave it to me to have it dyed so Petyr wouldn't find out. It was white, kind of like your Kingsguard cloaks I would imagine? I still remember her wrapping it around herself every seventh day of the moon and lighting a candle for the Stranger at the sept."

Sandor's eyes must have betrayed the emotions whirling around inside of him because Myranda looked at him with a knowingly triumphant smile. She patted the bed before standing up, "I'll let you rest."

A lock on the outside of the door clicked shut after she exited, reminding him he was still technically a prisoner here. Sandor shoved the food away, no longer hungry. He spent the night staring into the darkness, trying but failing to imagine a little bird with brown hair.


End file.
